by Ian Ross
He was still standing, tortured by raging indecision, when Vallio came in from the outer chamber and lit the lamp on the table. Castus had not even noticed that it was getting dark. Almost the ides of September, and the nights were beginning to lengthen. With dull surprise, Castus realised that it was nearly a year to the day since his audience with the emperor, in the palace at Constantinople, when he had first heard of his mission in the east. It seemed a lifetime ago. And how little he had suspected then of what would happen… More than anything he wished he could return to the life he had known before that day. To Marcellina and Aeliana, the villa on the coast of Dalmatia. The simple pleasures of peace.
Surrender, then. That was his only option now. And perhaps indeed Mucatra would treat him with respect and dignity? Perhaps when he returned to Antioch he would be allowed to see his wife and daughter one last time, if only to say goodbye. And perhaps – the fantasy took hold – if he could bear the ignominy of a trial then he could make his case plainly, convince the judges of his innocence…? Perhaps he would be free to return home, even to a life of exile…
He snorted a quick laugh. How easily he grasped at the most slender of hopes! If he were condemned as a traitor he would die, his property would be seized, and his family cast out with nothing. Was it worth the risk, even so? He felt his mind fogging, his thoughts slowing.
‘Dominus,’ Vallio said, lifting the flap of the tent once more. ‘Diogenes to see you.’
‘Show him in,’ Castus said in a firm voice. He cleared his throat, took possession of himself. As Diogenes entered he sat down again and picked up his cup. ‘Come to advise me?’ he asked. ‘Or just to help me drink myself to sleep?’
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Diogenes said. He wore a querulous frown. ‘I may bring good news, or bad.’
‘Oh?’ Castus said. He poured Diogenes a cup of wine, then took a slice of meat from the dish on the table. It tasted of nothing, but eating was a distraction at least.
‘You remember those Persian documents the Saracens found in Narses’ camp?’ Diogenes asked. ‘To pass the time earlier I made an attempt at deciphering some of them. Most, as we thought, are fairly worthless… But some appear to be official communications between Narses and the court of King Shapur.’
‘Yes?’ Castus was chewing steadily, trying to slow the sudden kick of his heart.
‘It was hard to make out at first, but I noticed several times a particular name mentioned, not a Persian name but a Roman one. It took me a while to determine what it was, but now I’m sure. The documents mention Dracilianus.’
Castus swallowed heavily. His hand trembled as he picked up his cup.
‘It seems,’ Diogenes went on, ‘that Dracilianus had several clandestine meetings with the Persian envoy, Vezhan Gushnasp, when he passed through Antioch in the spring, and also last year. Dracilianus was apparently paid a certain sum, in gold, in return for giving the Persians information on our military and political situation.’
‘Gods!’ Castus said, wide-eyed. ‘That message we found, the one Hind gave us – it came from him?’
‘Perhaps so. I believe these contacts date from the period before the death of Constantine, and the subsequent fall of Ablabius and Dracilianus’s rise to power. Presumably he was trying to enhance his own position at the time, and needed money. Now, of course, it would be highly embarrassing for him if such contacts became known…’
‘More than a little,’ Castus said quietly. ‘He must’ve feared that I’d discover what he’d been doing – maybe it was him who sent those men to kill me back in the autumn after all? And that’s why he’s concocted this treason charge against me, at the first opportunity...! Ha!’ he cried, smacking his fist into his palm. ‘He’s the real traitor!’
‘Yes, but I’m afraid that’s not all,’ Diogenes said, and his worried tone quelled Castus’s jubilation at once. ‘These letters also mention another man, whom they refer to as the commander of the Roman military forces. I thought at first they meant you, of course, but several of the documents date to before our arrival in the east. So the man in question must be…’
‘Valerius Mucatra,’ Castus said in a leaden voice. Despair plunged through him. Just for a moment, he had believed that he was saved. But if Mucatra himself was part of the conspiracy, then surrendering to him would be fatal. Castus would never be allowed to reach Antioch alive. And what had seemed a glimpse of hope was just the revelation of a greater peril.
‘If we could get these documents back to Antioch,’ Diogenes said in a musing tone, ‘give them to Hormisdas, perhaps – he could present them to Emperor Constantius when he arrives in the east, and explain their full meaning. Your name would be cleared, brother!’
‘No time,’ Castus said. He pressed his fist against his mouth, trying to think clearly. But it was useless: even if they circulated this news among Mucatra’s own officers and men, raised a mutiny against him, word of it would reach Dracilianus soon enough. Marcellina and Aeliana would die.
He stood up and placed a palm on Diogenes’s shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Keep working on the documents, as fast as you can. Perhaps we’ll gain something else from them yet.’
Diogenes nodded mutely, with a look of understanding.
Once he had left the tent Castus sat in silence, then went through to the outer chamber and pushed aside the flap. The camp was in darkness, and strangely subdued. No singing from the tent lines and watchfires, no cries from the sentries at the perimeter. Even the men standing guard around the command enclosure appeared unnaturally still, and none glanced back at him. The moon hung low in the sky.
Castus suppressed a shudder, feeling the chill of a dark intuition. He paced back into the main chamber of the tent, took up his sword and drew it from the scabbard. Sitting on a stool, he ran a whetstone along the edges of the blade. The tempered steel gleamed in the lamplight, and the stone made a keen rasp.
‘Dominus?’
Castus glanced up – it was Vallio again, at the tent door.
‘The praepositus Lycianus, dominus – he wishes to speak with you, alone.’
Castus laid the sword on the table beside him. He remained seated as Lycianus entered. The grizzled scout commander was wearing a cloak with the hood drawn up; he took it off and threw it onto one of the couches, then seated himself facing Castus.
‘General,’ he said, his voice low and hard. ‘There are strange rumours flying about. I wondered if you might tell me what you intend to do?’
‘Did you?’ Castus replied quietly. He angled his head, gazing at Lycianus, and shrugged in resignation. The man was only a decade younger than him, and he had imagined that there was trust between them at least. Do we have to do this?
‘I expected somebody,’ he said. ‘Didn’t think it would be you.’
Lycianus had surrendered his sword to Vallio, but he still wore a Saracen dagger in a belt sheath. Castus could see the man’s eyes flicking towards the weapon on the table.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Lycianus said, but the words came out awkwardly. The tension in his body was obvious. Realisation dawned on Castus; he should have guessed sooner, but now it made sense.
‘Diogenes just came to see me,’ he said. ‘About those letters we found in the Persian camp. But you knew that – you must have seen him leaving the tent. That’s why you’re here, correct?’
Lycianus tightened his jaw, saying nothing.
‘You know, I should have paid more attention when you were telling us that story about your captivity among the Lakhmids,’ Castus said with a crooked smile. ‘Your friendship with their fugitive prince – Imru something, wasn’t it? Hind tried to warn me, I think. She told me that you loved one of Imru’s sons in particular. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose. But I’d assumed it was one of the sons who died. It wasn’t though, was it? It was the eldest, the one who went back east and allied himself with the Persians.’
‘A long time ago, general.’
‘But old allegiances
are hard to break. Especially when there’s love involved, eh? An old man’s love for a barbarian youth… How long have you been working for them now?’
Lycianus exhaled, slow and quiet. His right hand was clasping his thigh; the slightest movement, and he could grasp the hilt of his knife. ‘When you spend a long time out in the deep desert,’ he said, ‘your ideas about loyalty change. Empires, frontiers – they’re nothing but empty dust. Kings and leaders don’t matter. Only men are important. The bonds between men. Love, and trust.’
‘I remember,’ Castus said, ‘when I first arrived in Antioch. Dracilianus was away in Edessa at the time – I thought that was strange, but I didn’t ask why. He was meeting you there, wasn’t he? You were his contact with the Persian agents.’
‘The Lakhmid agents,’ Lycianus said. ‘Yes.’
‘And that ambush in the desert, after we left Nisibis? That was you as well?’
‘No,’ the scout commander said firmly. ‘I told them of your plans, but I never expected them to attack like that. It was… ill conceived. And nothing personal, I have to say. As a matter of fact I’ve always liked you. You seem an honourable man, a soldier. Like me.’
‘But you never tried to let the Persians into Nisibis during the siege – why?’
Lycianus could only shrug. ‘I’ve seen cities fall to besieging armies before,’ he said. ‘It’s bloody, and indiscriminate. I wanted to avoid that if I could.’
‘And yet when we marched east you sent messages to Zamasp and Narses, telling them where we were going. You allowed them to set a trap for us.’
‘Such is war,’ Lycianus said. ‘You know that as well as anybody.’ His eyes were hard as flint now, his hand easing steadily towards the knife.
‘So now you’ve come to kill me yourself,’ Castus said, narrowing his eyes. ‘You could call it self-protection, I suppose.’ He lifted his hands only slightly, his palms empty, then stood up. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this.’
The other man had tensed as Castus moved. Now he raised himself slowly from his seat and stood facing him. Castus keep his hands down by his sides, and held the other man’s gaze; he could tell that Lycianus was still watching the sword on the table from the corner of his eye.
Castus twitched a quick smile. Neither of them moved.
A slight breeze rippled the leather wall of the tent, and the lamp flame flickered. Lycianus darted his hand towards the knife. Castus knew that he was expecting him to go for the sword; instead he stepped in, fast and close. With his left hand he seized Lycianus’s wrist, trapping it against his hip. He had already memorised the position of the sword on the table. Reaching blindly behind him he spun the blade towards him, grasped the hilt, and swept it upwards in a single fluid movement.
Lycianus tried to pull back, but Castus already had the long sword levelled, drawn back in his hand. He stabbed, and felt the honed tip drive between Lycianus’s ribs. Dragging the man close, he pushed the blade in deep.
With a single tight gasp, Lycianus fell forward against him, his knees buckling.
‘I wouldn’t have told anyone, you know,’ Castus said. ‘You could have just walked away.’
Then he shoved the blade forward, angling it to pierce the other man’s heart. A gulping sound from Lycianus’s throat, a spill of blood between his lips, then he slumped and toppled backwards onto the matting floor.
Castus flicked the blood from his sword, then wiped the blade. Summoned by the sudden noise, Vallio threw back the tent flap – he stifled a cry of horror as he saw the body sprawled before him.
‘Quiet!’ Castus said, laying the sword back on the table. ‘Help me. We need to move the body into the rear chamber. Nobody must know of this.’
Together they dragged the corpse through into the curtained sleeping area at the rear of the tent. As Castus washed his hands he could hear a strange disturbance from outside. Shouting voices, wild cries in the night.
‘See what’s happening out there,’ he told Vallio.
Now the initial danger had passed, he was sweating, trembling with nervous energy. The shouts from outside were getting louder, closer. The glow of torchlight showed from beneath the tent flap.
Castus swallowed heavily, fighting to compose himself. Mucatra’s men, he guessed, had entered the camp. Either that, or his troops were rising in mutiny against him. Calm, he had to be calm. He had to face the end like a soldier. He sheathed his sword and threw the baldric over his shoulder; then he put on his cloak and pinned it to fall across his chest, hiding the bloodstains. Already he was gaining control of himself. Standing in the lamplight, he drew his head up and squared his shoulders.
The tent flap was flung aside, and Egnatius stepped into the chamber. A look on his face of wild panic, or perhaps exhilaration.
‘General!’ the tribune cried. ‘Come outside… It’s the troops…’ He looked as though he wanted to scream, or burst into tears. ‘They’re… They’re acclaiming you emperor!’
*
Hot torchlight outside the tent, and a sea of faces. Cheers burst from the crowd of men as Castus emerged. Arms rose in salute. There were officers among them – Barbatio and Gunthia, and Iovinus the Protector. The rest were men of Castus’s escort, mingling with legionaries and Gothic warriors, cavalry troopers and archers, a great surging mob surrounding his tent. Some of them had already dropped to one knee before him.
Castus stood up straight, his chin pressed down against his throat, gazing at the scene in astonished horror. ‘What is this madness?’ he managed to say, but the words came out as a croak.
The madness had begun, Egnatius had told him before they left the tent, among Hind’s Saracens. The desert horsemen had come riding up to the camp as evening fell, shouting in bad Greek that Castus was the greatest general of Rome, the true successor to Constantine, and he should be emperor of the east. In the rumour-ridden uncertainty of the camp the word had spread all too quickly, passed between the tent parties and the cavalry lines. The first shouts of acclamation had come less than an hour ago, and already there was pandemonium.
‘What is this madness?’ Castus said again, raising his head to yell at the ring of men who surrounded him in the torchlight. Voices shouted back, crying out his name.
With a roar of fury Castus paced forward again. He saw Barbatio dropping to kneel, and seized the officer by the arms, dragging him to his feet. ‘What are you doing?’ he yelled. ‘What are you doing? Stop this now! Have you lost your mind?’
‘General,’ Barbatio cried, his face dark with passionate excitement. ‘Lead us and we’ll back you! Half of the men at least – both the Gemina detachments, the Parthica legions, and the Goths… they’re yours!’
‘Castus Caesar! Castus Augustus!’
Castus gazed around himself, wild with ferocious dread. Yes, he thought – all of them were here. The men who had cheered his name from the walls of Nisibis. The men who had marched east under his command, who had saluted him after the victory at Narasara… Suddenly his voice was gone, and he felt weak at the knees. He wanted to cover his face with his hands, to weep, to run…
Sabinus pushed his way through the throng, a look of astonished confusion on his face. But even he seemed caught up in the madness now. ‘Father!’ he cried. ‘We can’t stop this! They’re tearing the images of Constantius from the standards!’
And Castus knew at once that all was lost.
Marcellina and Aeliana will die.
‘Silence!’ he bellowed, raising his arms. Some of the men at the back started chanting his name – they thought he was returning their salute, accepting their acclamation. Two of them carried a shield, and were yelling for Castus to stand upon it and be raised between them. Three more had a sort of purple cape, made from scraps of their own military standards.
Horror, absolute and paralysing.
My wife and child will die.
‘Get back!’ he bellowed. He drew his sword and brandished it at the ring of men. ‘Get back, or I’ll kill you my fucking sel
f!’
Egnatius was beside him; he too had his sword drawn. ‘Listen to the general!’ he was shouting. ‘The general refuses the purple! Obey his commands!’
There were sounds of fighting in the distance now, angry shouts and yells from away across the tent lines. Not everyone, it seemed, was so willing to change allegiance. And if more swords were bared, Castus knew, men would die.
‘Barbatio, Gunthia!’ he yelled at the two officers. ‘Get your men in order. Get them back to their lines – do it now!’
Barbatio stared at him, wide-eyed, his face falling. Many of the soldiers were still chanting wildly, but the centurions and junior officers among them had caught the night’s shifting mood and were trying to drive their men back towards their quarters. Scuffles in the dust, a shout of rage or pain. The torches wavered and began to fall away.
Castus stood with clenched jaw, watching the crowd disperse. His face was flushed, filled with blood, but his eyes were wet with tears. Just for a moment, he thought – just for a last dying moment he had been tempted. But it could not happen. He turned, and marched back into the tent.
In the inner chamber he doubled over, braced on his knees. Then he threw his head back and barked with laughter. His shoulders were quaking, and his muscles ached. Emperor, he thought. How could he ever have expected that?
Sabinus and Vallio were waiting at the door, watching him anxiously. Castus turned to them, exhaling. He wiped his face.
‘I want all the senior officers assembled,’ he ordered. ‘As soon as they’ve settled their men, summon them here.’
Sabinus nodded and went outside. Castus drank back two cups of wine, and waited until the heaving of his chest had subsided. Then Vallio helped him change into his best tunic, the one that bore the silver and gold woven insignia of the Magister Equitum. He put on his white cloak, and secured it at his shoulder with the heavy gold brooch that bore the name of Constantine. Vallio passed him his helmet – still a little scratched and dented after it had been retrieved from the battlefield, but the orderly had hammered and polished out the worst of the damage. Castus clasped it under his arm, tightened his belts and pulled his cloak straight. Then Vallio raised the flap, and he strode through into the outer chamber once more.
